


In the Shadow of the Valley

by Aalligade



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Camping trips, Explicit content in later chapters, Horse ocs - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, I’m bad at tagging, M/M, Mid-honor Arthur Morgan, Minor Injuries, Morally ambiguous elements, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Burn, They’re both too stupid to realize their feelings, maybe the true white Arabian was the friends we made along the way :), no beta we die like men, this is in no way original, tragic backstories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:35:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23501704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aalligade/pseuds/Aalligade
Summary: “I have wandered many placesBut they're all the same to meNowhere I've foundTo settle downA little bit furtherI'll find my restIn the shadow of the valleyThat I love best”——Knowing that he’ll be out of his element, Arthur takes Kieran along on the hunt for the white Arabian.
Relationships: Kieran Duffy/Arthur Morgan
Comments: 25
Kudos: 96





	1. Peregrination

**Author's Note:**

> “A journey, especially a long or meandering one.”

Staring down at the crumpled map, Arthur Morgan couldn’t decide if he was foolish or just plain stupid.

15 dollars. 15 dollars that could’ve gone towards the gang’s funds— instead spent on a map that _might_ show the _approximate_ location of a _rumored_ Arabian. 

He grumbles low, vague threats aimed at the map’s previous owner as he rolls it up and tucks it into his satchel. If it turned out to be bullshit, he could always come back and rob the bastard.  
But then again, Dutch had been fairly clear in his instructions— to keep a low profile and not cause trouble in this little backwater town. 

Sure. Whatever. Arthur knew how to keep a low profile. Unlike _some other people who will not be named._

“C’mon, girl.” He grunts as he climbs up onto Boss, a Belgian Draft he pulled from a prison cart. (The policemen were already dead when he found the it. He figured they wouldn’t mind.)  
She was a good horse, but not the fastest. Or the smartest, for that matter. Not that he could hold that against her— he wasn’t exactly a genius himself. 

Arthur kicks her into a quick trot, holding the reigns in one hand as he scratches his cheek with the other. Going up to the Grizzlies and back would take a week at _least._  
It’d be stupid to assume he could just... leave for a week and expect to not be needed. He’s just about the only one that brings in constant “income” and food. (Although, maybe his absence would encourage some other members to finally start pulling their weight.)

His fear is less grounded in the idea that the entire camp will go up in flames without him, and more that he doesn’t like staying away for long periods of time.  
Call it separation anxiety, or some other two-bit word. He just doesn’t like the uncertainty of not knowing what’s going on.

Hosea had sworn up and down that he’d never go that far north again. Arthur had agreed. Now he’s heading back to camp in order to pack all the food he can fit into Boss’ saddlebags and freeze his balls off in order to find a horse that may or may not exist.  
Maybe Mary was right. Maybe he was just a Damn Fool. 

He curls his lip and sniffs at the bitter thought. Now isn’t the time to drudge up old and painful memories. Now’s the time to plan. (Because he’s _always_ been the type to stick to a plan. What a joke.)  
He’ll have to grab his heavy coat and gloves and stash them in the saddlebag. The Lemoyne air is too hot and oppressive to even _consider_ wearing anything heavier than a work shirt. 

It’s not the heat that bothers him the most, it’s the goddamn humidity. He feels like he has to chew the air before taking a breath. At least the weather out west was dry— none of this wet heat that stifles and smothers. 

The cold of the Grizzlies will provide a welcomed break— Arthur feels like he’ll go insane if he has to hear the words “Gray” or “Braithwaite” one more time.  
He’ll pack up his gear, ride up north, and take the week-long break he’s been promising himself for the past month. 

It’ll be easy. Ride up, catch the horse, then ride back down. A foolproof plan. 

Hm. But now that he thinks about it, there’s the issue of actually catching the horse. He’s not bad with horses, exactly— his aim with a lasso is true and he’s patient enough to wear down any wild stallion. But from what the map’s seller told him, this Arabian is clever and mean. It’ll take more than rope to break it. 

“Might be a job for two,” He mutters to no one in particular. The thought alone causes a surge of annoyance to run through him, and he grips tightly onto the reigns. _If_ this horse actually exists, it’s selling price alone would be worth the trouble of putting up with someone for a week. 

But the real question was who?  
Dutch and Hosea could be counted out on principle— both were far to busy and far too uninterested in work like this. Sean doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut and would scare off the horse, Charles is currently off on some sort of hunting trip, Lenny’s better with books than horses, Williamson (and Marston) would complain the whole time, and Javier handles the cold even worse than Hosea.  
He’s not even going to entertain the thought of bringing _Micah._

Uncle would whine about his lumbago before Arthur even got the chance to explain, Reverend Swanson is probably to drunk to even ride a horse, and Pearson is busy with making the gang’s soup.

Okay, so that leaves... the women and the O’Driscoll. Not exactly a promising bunch. 

“Who’s there?” A heavy Irish accent breaks him from his thoughts— just in time to realize that he’s already back at camp.

“It’s Arthur, you dumbass.” He calls in response, squinting down at Sean. The other man answers with his usual cheery welcome as Boss trots past.  
(It’s nothing he hasn’t heard a million times before.)

The camp almost looks empty, with everyone in their tents to stay out of the hot Lemoyne sun.  
Well, everyone except for the O’Driscoll, who’s out spreading hay for the horses.  
Hmm. 

They boy’s good with horses— Arthur will give him that. Even if he _is_ meek and largely useless, the horses seem to trust him. (And only the horses, for that matter. Bill continues to threaten him with the gelding tongs.)  
Maybe he’s the kind of person Arthur needs. The kind that won’t talk back, knows how to handle a horse, and won’t make his life a living hell. 

(Kieran’s a better choice than Uncle, at least.)

Arthur climbs down and hitches Boss, patting her neck affectionately. She’s a good horse, he makes sure to tell her. He gives her an apple as a treat because she deserves it.

“O’Driscoll,” He calls as he walks towards the clearing, watching as the man jolts violently in surprise. (He’s so unbelievably skittish— although, it’s probably a case of once bitten, twice shy.)  
“Need your help with something. A horse up north— you still have that coat you had?”

“I—Uh,” Kieran’s eyes dart wildly in his skull, like a frightened horse. He seems like he doesn’t know what part of the question to answer. “What?”

Arthur huffs. He’s not surprised that man takes everything as some sort of veiled threat, considering how at least two people seem to have made it their chore to torment him on a daily basis. (Cough, Bill and Sadie, cough.)  
“There’s talk of an Arabian up north. A mean bastard, from what I’ve heard. You’re good with horses, so I figured I’d bring you along. You still have that coat of yours?”

He glances over his shoulder, like the two of them are talking about something taboo.  
“I don’t know...” He eventually mutters. “I— I’ve got work to do here, and—“

“They’ll survive without you,” Says Arthur, waving a hand dismissively. “Hell, with you being gone, maybe some of the others’ll start pulling their weight.” He casts a not-so-discreet glare in Uncle’s direction. 

“Ha ha,” The laugh is so obviously fake that Kieran himself flinches. “Yeah... but, uh, you really think I could be helpful? I mean, I-I don’t want to be a bother...”

“You know horses, and that’s all I really need from ya,” Arthur shrugs. “Start grabbin’ your stuff, O’Driscoll. We’ll head out while we still have daylight.”  
As he walks towards his own tent, he can hear Kieran mumble his annoyance at the name. 

It’s almost become a sort of habit— calling Kieran names and going against his wishes. Despite how many times he’s asked not to be called “O’Driscoll,” the nasty nickname has stuck.  
It’s kind of funny, actually— seeing how angry he gets. It’s probably why the other members continue to harass him. He really should learn to control his reactions.

(Maybe he’ll tell Kieran. Give the kid more of a fighting chance, instead of leaving him as a sitting duck for mockery.)

Arthur begins to dig through his wardrobe, pulling out his gloves and heavy jacket. He’s not going to risk hypothermia over a damn horse.  
After a short pause, he decides to grab one of his smaller jackets. Just in case.

“What’re you doing, Morgan?” Bill is standing right behind him, hands on his hips and a suspicious look on his face. (Which is typical.)

“And here I thought you didn’t care,” Arthur grunts, standing up and stuffing his clothes under his arm. “Taking a trip up north. Heard about an Arabian that could be worth a lot of money.”

“Why were you talking with the O’Driscoll?” He continues, following Arthur towards Boss. 

“I’m takin’ him up with me. He’s better with horses,” Arthur explains, stuffing the jackets into the saddlebag. “And you’d complain the whole time. Didn’t feel like torturing myself.”

“You’d have to watch your back the whole trip,  
or—“

“Or what?” He scoffs, glancing back. “The kid’s afraid of his own shadow. I think the horse is more likely to kill me. ‘Sides, it’s not like I don’t know how to handle him. I was the one that caught him, remember?”

“Of course I remember,” Bill huffs, crossing his arms. “Who could forget all ‘a that screaming and crying?”

Arthur chuckles, ducking his head down.  
“You’re telling me,” His smile drops slightly as he spots Kieran watching in the distance, one hand on his horse and the other wrapped around a large bundle of... something.  
He turns to look at Bill. “I think you’re scaring him off. I can handle the situation from here.”

Bill holds his hands up in mock surrender, before turning and walking back to the camp.  
“Don’t see why. I only threatened him with gelding tongs to the privates.”

“ _Twice._ ” Arthur corrects, before gesturing for Kieran to come closer. 

The man jerks into action, grabbing his horse’s reigns and bringing her along.  
“I- I did still have my coat,” He says, lifting the bundle of cloth. “And I grabbed some, uh, other things that might be useful.”

He unwraps his jacket, scrambling to catch the cans of food that fall out.  
“Aw, shit—“

“Don’t you have a bag, or somethin’?” Arthur sighs, leaning down in order to pick up a can. 

“Er— well, no,” Kieran answers, and it might just be a trick of the light, (or the fact that it’s nearly 100 degrees out,) but his face seems to be covered in a light flush. “I don’t have much that needs carrying. Most’ve my things fit is Branwen’s saddle.”

The other man glances over at said horse— a Tennessee Walker, from the looks of it.  
Despite the less than unique breed of the horse, it’s just about the most loyal animal Arthur’s ever seen. (Second only to The Count, perhaps.) It had followed its owner all the way to Colter, and had even grabbed his dropped hat. 

It’s almost like the O’Driscoll knows how to _speak_ to horses. As insane as that sounds.

“It’s no big deal,” Arthur drawls eventually, handing the can back. “I’ve got more than enough space to carry anything _worth_ carrying.”

Kieran makes a low humming noise— some sort of affirmation that he doesn’t feel needs to be truly voiced. It works well enough for Arthur, who’s far too used to half-answers and straight-out lies.  
(The strange half-innocence that the O’Driscoll seems to exude is a refreshing change of pace. His face is easy to read, and it’s laughably easy to get the reaction you want out of him.)

He was a strange, unwelcomed, yet sorely needed fresh face. The gang had become somewhat stagnant— what with the losses they had, and the near-insurmountable issues they faced.  
Kieran almost seemed to be a timid, snot-faced, cowardly ray of hope. A chance to _finally beat_ Colm O’Driscoll. 

Turned out to be a false hope, but Arthur’s so used to things not going to plan that he doesn’t have it in him to be disappointed. 

“—far up north is this Arabian?”

Arthur glances over quickly, too caught up in thought to realize the other man was talking. “Way up in the Grizzlies,” He responds to the question he thinks was asked. It seems to be a good enough answer for Kieran, who scrunches his nose like he smells something foul.

“Never thought I’d go up there again,” He says, and there’s so much bitterness in his tone that Arthur actually laughs.  
“What?” His face reddens, as if he’s embarrassed. “I didn’t exactly _enjoy_ my time up there. What with you boys lassoing and starving me.”

“I know, I know,” Arthur says, patting his own thigh until Boss comes trotting over. “Just— never mind. You got everything?” He gestures vaguely at Branwen, and the O’Driscoll nods in response.  
“Then let’s get going. Don’t like wasting daylight.”


	2. Redundant Prose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait to post this but I figured: why not?  
> Tell me if this chapter is shit cause I feel like I kinda went on a weird tangent transcribing Kieran’s thoughts. Oh well.
> 
> Oh and btw: AO3 doesn’t count hits if you’re not logged into an account. So please leave a kudos so that I know this chapter hasnt gotten lost or smth lol

Kieran is sure that he’ll be dead by the end of the week.  
He tries to keep the panic off his face, but knows it’s evident in the way his hands shake and his leg bounces. 

This is quite possibly the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. (Second only to his near-castration.) He’ll be stuck with Arthur Morgan— _The Arthur Morgan!_ — for a week. An agonizingly long week spent in the most forsaken corner of God’s Green Earth.  
(It’s an accident waiting to happen. One that will surely result in Kieran’s untimely demise.)

He dares to glance over at Arthur, who is hunched over his map, running his finger across the weathered paper and muttering incoherently.  
Somehow, even that makes him nervous.

This is probably the closest he’s been to the man in weeks, with how busy both of them had been.  
Kieran has his hands full with all the horses, and Arthur always seems to be out on one chore or another.  
He seems to be allergic to sitting still— always completing some sort of task. (Maybe that’s his burden, as the workhorse of the Van der Linde gang. Kieran can relate to it, sort of. Not that he’d ever dare to voice the idea.)

“We’ll go... up through... have to watch out for bears...” Is all he manages to decipher from Arthur’s mumbling.  
Bears? He shivers from the thought alone, despite the heat. He has a healthy fear of bears. He’d seen the aftermath of an attack up in the mountains. One of the O’Driscoll scouts was dragged in, a heavy stream of blood coming from what _used_ to be his face. There wasn’t much left of him.

Okay. He makes a mental list of the things that might try to kill him on this trip: Bears and Arthur Morgan. (At least it’s a fairly short list, he tries to comfort himself. Even if both things listed are deadly and mean.)

Absentmindedly, he reaches down in order to stroke Branwen’s mane. The stallion has never failed to comfort Kieran, and now’s no different. They’ve been together for years, now. It’d just feel wrong to ride any other horse.  
He runs his fingers through the mane, splitting it apart and braiding it. 

Kieran takes the moment of rest to examine his surroundings. The two of them are just outside Rhodes. Close enough that he can hear talking, but far enough away to not be able to pick up any conversation in particular. A nice balance.

This is probably the closest he’s been to actual civilization in years. The O’Driscolls tended to hole up away from towns, and the gang never allowed him to leave on his own.  
But he knows that he doesn’t like towns. Too many people. A surplus of unknowns that make his skin crawl.  
He hates not knowing what’s going on. He’s become used to it, though. Unfortunately.

Free will is something that must be earned, and right now, he’s barely managing to justify his existence to the van der Linde gang. It’s an exhausting dance that he’s too scared to object to.

He recognizes that Dutch and the rest of the gang don’t trust him— he’s not stupid. They haven’t gotten this far on blind trust alone.  
(At least... he doesn’t _think_ they have. Seems like they do whatever Dutch says. But then again, he is the leader of the gang. It only makes sense that they listen to him.)

A loud cough and a sniff draw his attention, and he turns in time to see Arthur roll up the map.  
“Reckon we’ll make it to the Lemoyne border before night,” He says, kicking his horse into a trot. “Don’t like ridin’ in the dark.”

“M-me neither,” Kieran agrees, pushing Branwen to keep pace. “Can’t see nothin’ and— and the horses get spooked by just about everything.”

“Mhm,” Arthur hums, glancing back briefly. “I’m not looking to get thrown. And there’s men meaner than us out there. A camp would be best— seeing as you can’t exactly hold your own.”

“Very funny. I- I saved your life at Six Point, and this is what I get?” His sudden bout of courage disappears as the other man glares at him.  
“Sorry.” He mumbles.

Kieran is unsure if the redness of his face is due to the heat or his shame.  
It only took a look for him to shut up— just one glare and he rolled over and gave up. It’s pathetic, and he can’t help the feeling of resentment that boils within him. A hatred towards himself. One he’s lived with an nurtured for most of his life.

Unbidden, the memory of him slung over the back of Arthur’s horse returns.  
He had cried and begged for his life, and damn near pissed himself. As first impressions go, Kieran must’ve seemed pathetic.  
But from what he heard, tied to that tree, Arthur never told anyone about it. Never used it against him. He still doesn’t know why, but he appreciates it nonetheless. 

He hears Arthur say something, but it doesn’t really register with him. He’s too deep in thought to really notice anything. (A dangerous habit, but one he can’t seem to shake.)

The man had threatened to break every bone in his body, but never actually made good on the promise. Maybe he forgot. (Or maybe he was just too busy.)  
Kieran’s thankful, either way. Even though being starved wasn’t that great of an alternative. 

Arthur Morgan isn’t exactly _nice_ to him— more that he doesn’t try to make every moment of Kieran’s life a living nightmare. Which, compared to the torment he’s faced at the hands of some other gang members, is a sort of kindness in its own.

He’s worried that he has to remind himself that it’s meaningless— that this isn’t a sign of... _something._  
It’s... _weird ,_ that he likes the idea of all this meaning something. It’s just a simple outing that Arthur won’t think twice about. He only brought Kieran along because he’s good with horses. There’s nothing to it. No underlying feelings or ulterior motives.

Unless, of course, this is a strange and elaborate plan meant to get rid of Kieran. Then there’d be an ulterior motive. 

“Kieran!” 

He jolts at the sudden noise, a strangled scream managing to escape from his mouth.  
“Jesus!” He cries, pulling back on Branwen’s reigns. “Y-yes sir? Mr. Morgan?”

Arthur stares at him like he’s grown a second head, a disbelieving sort of smile gracing his face.  
“‘Mister Morgan?’” He parrots, scoffing. “You’re joking, right?”

Kieran looks away, the dusty ground seeming very interesting all of a sudden.  
“Maybe,” He says, eventually. “Didn’t mean no disrespect.”

A long pause.  
Kieran can feel sweat dripping down his face.

“You are just about the dumbest son of a bitch I’ve ever met!” Arthur laughs— a bright, brilliant sound that Kieran’s sure he’s never heard before.  
(He would enjoy it more if it wasn’t aimed at him.)

“W-what?” 

“You—“ Is the only word he can get out before continuing to chuckle. “Shit, just have the balls to insult me, why don’t’cha? Can’t believe Bill hasn’t eaten you alive already!” He shakes his head, a smile still on his face.  
“Oh, that’s priceless,” He mutters. “‘Mister Morgan!’”

“I... I— beg your pardon?” Kieran ventures.

“Don’t give me any a that bullshit,” The other man sneers. “Just Arthur’s fine.”

——

Kieran’s relieved when Arthur finally decides to set up camp for the night. The awkward silence on his part and the occasional comment from Arthur did nothing to make the time pass quickly. 

Their camp is right near the edge of the forest— away from the swamps and the alligators. (Yet still not entirely free from mosquitos. Oh well. Compromise is a necessary part of life.)  
The night air has a distinct chill to it, so the campfire is a nice comfort. 

Arthur’s sitting with his back against a tree, scribbling in some sort of journal. He glances over at Kieran every once in a while, but always looks back before he can comment on it. He’s not sure if it’s a good thing or not, so he just decides to mind his own business.  
(But he still wipes a hand across his face— just in case there’s something there and it’s bothering Arthur.)

Now that they’re not riding, Kieran really wishes that he’d brought something to entertain himself. At the time, he was too terrified to pack anything other than the essentials.  
He hasn’t had much free time lately, considering the amount of chores he has to do. This feels like the first time he’s been able to just... sit and do nothing. 

He’s not sure if he likes it. He doesn’t like the feeling of not being productive.  
(Maybe it’s because his life is dependent on him doing work. He’s sure that’s not good for his emotional well-being.)

“So,” Arthur speaks up suddenly, closing his journal with a quiet thunk. “You an’ horses.”

“What about ‘me an’ horses?’” He responds, trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice.

“I’ve never seen ‘em take to somebody so quickly. Hell, even The Count lets you get close! I’ve known that horse since Dutch got him, and he still hates me!” Arthur’s laughing, but there’s a strange undertone to his words. A jealousy that even he isn’t fully aware of.  
“You must be part horse. Only thing that makes sense.”

“I, uh...” Kieran chuckles awkwardly, crossing his arms. “No, I don’t think that’s it. I’ve— I’ve just always been good with horses, I guess. Ever since I was young,” He pauses briefly, staring down into the fire. “Spent most of my life with horses, actually. Guess everything... kinda revolved around ‘em.”

“Guess it’s your destiny to be a stable boy,” Arthur chuckles. “Can’t say I envy you.”  
Something about his words rings untrue. Something deep and hidden that Kieran wouldn’t notice if he wasn’t looking for it. (It reminds him of horses, of course. An invisible language only understandable through years of careful observation. His gaze slides between Arthur and the Belgian Draft hitched next to Branwen. There’s a link there— he knows it.)

“Y-Yeah?” He says, because he’s not about to challenge Arthur. He’s not stupid. The man might be all smiles and honeyed words right now, but it’s just a ruse. A mask like any other, meant to get Kieran to drop his guard. He tries not to buy into it. His distrust has kept him alive all these years.  
“Better than some... some other things, I suppose.”

“There’s always some bastard one step down,” Arthur says sagely, like it’s a secret he’s only discovered after years of searching. Maybe it is. Kieran doesn’t know. 

“To you, I guess _I’m_ that sorry bastard.” He says, pulling his knees up and wrapping his arms around them.  
Arthur doesn’t comment or offer a rebuttal, just watches.  
“Not sure there’s much room for me to move up. Suppose I’m fine where I am.”

“Things change,” He says, eventually. “You’ve all people should know that. Just because things aren’t going your way doesn’t mean they’ll be that way forever. You just have to—“

“Plan ahead?” 

A pause. Then, an annoyed huff.  
“You’re putting words into my mouth.”

“Sorry,” Kieran sighs. The walls have returned— not that they were ever really taken down. He would be stupid to mistake the friendliness with openness. Arthur doesn’t want to be friends. He’s trying to pass the time, and Kieran needs to keep that in mind.  
“Didn’t mean nothing by it.”

He knows that Arthur’s still staring at him, but vehemently ignores it. He’s crossed a line, and he’s not keen on facing there consequences.  
(He’s always been a coward.)

A sniff.  
Then a sigh.

“It’s getting late.” Is all Arthur says. All he needs to say. He stands up, puts his journal in his satchel, and grabs his rifle from off his shoulder.  
For a moment, Kieran worries it’ll be aimed at him.  
It isn’t.

“I’ll stay up for a little while. Keep watch,” The other man kicks a rock as he walks toward where the horses are hitched. “We’ll take turns. I’ll wake you up later.”

“A-alright,” Kieran sighs, scooting backwards until he’s in the tent. “Uh... good— goodnight, Mister Morgan.”

 _”Arthur.”_ Comes the reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the other day I was watching this video that was showing off all of Kieran’s outfits and.... y’all.... I was not expecting to see Kieran Duffy’s Dick at ten AM. Rockstar really didn’t need to model it.
> 
> Also my tumblr is Alligade if you want to come yell at me.  
> <3


	3. Keep your wits about you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter kicked my fucking ass. It’s kinda short and kinda bad bc I just finished chapter six and I’ve been in deep mourning 😞   
> I miss Arthur even though John is hot and stupid (my type.)

There’s a nervous sort of energy in the air— one that even Arthur notices.  
The horses feel it too, tiptoeing along the trails with wide eyes and alert ears.   
It’s Kieran. He knows it’s Kieran.

The man is a bundle of nerves, and the horses are picking up on it, which, in turn, freaks them out.   
(It’s not as if any part of this is surprising. He seems to be in a near-constant state of terror.)

The skittishness would be less annoying if it wasn’t directly affecting him. Boss is one of the calmest mares Arthur has ever ridden. It takes a lot to get her riled up.

“Will you _quit it?_ ” He eventually snaps when Boss nearly bucks him off because of a rabbit. “All your worrying is scaring the damn horses!”

Kieran jolts, causing his stallion rear up slightly with a startled whinny.   
“Jesus! Um— sorry,” He ducks his head down, and the wide brim of his hat hides his face. His knuckles are white, and he’s gripping onto the reigns like his life depends on it. “I’m just—“

“Nervous?” Arthur drawls. 

“Sorry...”

“God, don’t apologize, boy!” He glances back. “It’s making me sick. Thought you grew outta it back at Horseshoe.“

“I— I... sorry,” Kieran answers meekly. 

Arthur sighs, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose.  
“Don’t know what I expected,” He mutters. “From now on, I don’t want to hear you apologize again, got it? You’re getting on my goddamn nerves.”

“S— um, yessir. Mister Arthur.”

It’s a step in the right direction, at least. A small one, and more of a shuffle than anything, but still. 

“Listen,” He sighs, glancing back at the O’Driscoll. “I ain’t gonna kill you, if that’s what’s got you so riled up. Not yet, anyways.”

“That... doesn’t really... make me feel any better.” Kieran meets Arthur’s gaze for a brief moment, before looking away. 

Returning his attention to the path ahead, Arthur begins to wonder if bringing the kid along was such a good idea after all. Having to put up with this for the rest of the week sounds like torture. Making fun of him brings Arthur no pleasure— he’s not a sadist like Bill— and poor Kieran’s afraid of his own shadow. 

What was that saying? The one that Hosea kept trying to drill into his thick skull? It was something about honey and flies and vinegar. Arthur doesn’t remember the exact saying, but he understands the point— being kind usually nets a bigger reward than being a bastard for no reason. 

He sniffs. Wrinkles his nose against the dry air.   
He’s not _opposed_ to the thought of being kind to the boy. God knows he deserves it, after what the gang put him through. 

He turns his attention outward, towards the open plains and endless horizon.   
Out in the distance, a strange shape breaks the evenness. He squints, pulling back on Boss’ reigns. 

“What’s that..?” He mutters, mostly to himself, as Kieran stops next to him. 

“W-what?”

Instead of answering, Arthur reaching into his satchel and pulls out his binoculars.   
“There’s... something— ah,” He pauses as it comes into view. It’s that same Silver Dapple Pinto. He hadn’t expected to see it again.

“It’s a horse,” He says, passing the binoculars to Kieran. “I’ve seen it round these parts before. Couldn’t recognize it from this far away.”

“Wow...” Kieran breathes out, awe evident in his tone. “That’s quite a horse...”

“It’s no Arabian, though.”

“I-I suppose not,” Kieran hands them back. “You’ve seen it before? Why didn’t you, uh, catch it?” 

“I was helping a...” Arthur pauses, trying to figure out what word he should use. “Friend take pictures. He wanted one a that stallion, and I didn’t want to ruin it by roping the damn thing.”

“He’s a— Uh, what’s the word? Photo-grapher?”

“Photographer. One word. But yeah, he takes photos of all these different animals. Coyotes, wolves, alligators, you name it. Had to keep him from being eaten on multiple occasions.” 

“Sure is nice of you to keep helping him.”

“Eh, weren’t really,” Arthur argues, mostly out of instinct. He’s not a good man. Doesn’t do any good to make a big scene out of a one-off comment, though. “Mostly just hoping to be, uh... compensated.” 

“Were you?”

“Not exactly,” He drawls, kicking Boss into a quick trot. “Was I paid? No. Was I given something? Yes.”

At Kieran’s expectant expression, Arthur digs through his satchel until he finds the photo of the wolves. He hands it over, watching as the other man stares down at it.  
“I, uh... helped keep him from being eaten. Gave me this a few weeks ago as a thanks.”

“It’s... it’s real nice,” Kieran says eventually, handing the photo back. “Haven’t seen many photos like this. Er. Actually, haven’t seen many photos at all,” He reaches up to rub the nape of his neck. “The O’Driscolls weren’t exactly... photographers.” 

“Never assumed they was,” Arthur chuckles. “But you never had your picture taken? Not even a family portrait?”

The small, hesitant smile on Kieran’s face drops like a bag of rocks, and he stares down at his horse.  
“N-no, sir,” He mutters. “Weren’t old enough, and... um...”  
The poorly-hidden emotion in his voice tells Arthur all he really needs to know.

“‘S alright. You don’t have to say nothing.”

The grateful look that Kieran gives him makes Arthur feel... _something._ Good, maybe. He’s not quite sure if he can (or should) pinpoint it. A general acknowledgment is good enough. No need to dig deeper. 

A good majority of the ride is spent in blissful, blessed silence. Neither of the men are adept at small talk, and both are happy to keep their mouths shut.   
The scenery is passed by with little more than an appreciative glance and an occasional point.

It works better this way, Arthur is sure. No tiptoeing around delicate emotions. (He never was good at reading a room.)  
It’s a welcomed change from what he’s been forced to get used to. 

Boss snorts underneath him.   
Arthur pats her neck encouragingly. 

The air has a distinct chill to it— not quite cold, but getting there. It makes him feel better. Makes his thoughts clearer, now that he’s not being smothered by the oppressive Lemoyne air.   
Feels like it’s good for him, somehow. 

He’s never taken well to heat. He’s better off in the cold. 

Off in the distance, he can barely make out the outline of Emerald Ranch.   
It was a nice enough town— small, but full of people willing to do (mostly) honest work 

It’s a reminder of what _could’ve_ been, had he taken another path in life.  
He cringes a little at the thought. 

He’s run with Dutch for some 20-odd years, and it’s almost impossible to imagine himself settling down, or (god forbid) starting a family.   
(He’s tried it once already. He’s not keen to give it a second go.)

Arthur doesn’t deserve a life like that. Doesn’t want it, either. He’s not going to lose sleep over a dream that would take more than a miracle to come true. 

He sniffs. Shakes his head to clear away the line of thought. 

The sound of a train whistle interrupts his internal monologue, and he pulls on the reigns instinctively.   
It’s a passenger train— still at the station as people load up. 

Kieran stops next to him, following Arthur’s gaze. 

“Have you ever been on a train?” Arthur asks, eventually. He doesn’t know why. 

“Helped rob one,” Kieran answers, with what might be a hint of pride in his voice. “Never ridden on one, though.”

Arthur pauses, watching the train and trying not to entertain stupid ideas.   
“Are the horses tired?” He asks eventually. 

“I— Uh, I suppose a break couldn’t hurt,” Kieran sounds unsure. (Although, Arthur can’t tell if it’s aimed towards himself or it’s the typical timidness.) “Why do you ask?”

He sniffs, rubbing a hand across his chest. There’s really no reason _not_ to take a train. It’d give the horses (as well as Arthur’s back) a break, and cut the trip to Valentine in half. Plus, it’s not like he’s hurting for money. 

He glances at the O’Driscoll. “Want to ride the train?”

——

As it turns out, Kieran does want to ride the train. He had fussed about ticket prices and paybacks, but Arthur knows the cut he gets from jobs (that is, nothing.) He’d likely never be able to pay it back with the way things are looking for him. Not that Arthur really cares— he’s not going to cause a scene over a seven dollar train ticket.

Arthur snorts quietly and shakes his head, returning his attention to his journal. The sketch he was working on— some horse he was trying to draw from memory— is abandoned as he flips to another page. 

He glances over at the man in the seat next to his— who is far too entranced watching the window to notice.   
Arthur’s hand seems to move on its own, sketching a rough outline of the O’Driscoll’s back. 

Underneath, he begins to write.   
‘Bought a map off some bastard, said it lead to a white Arabian up in the Grizzlies. I do not know the smallest thing about breaking a horse like that, so I brought the O’Driscoll, seeing as he has a way with horses. I hope this does not turn out to be a waste of time.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me if they’re something wrong so that I can fix it :)
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are appreciated!


	4. Cold Comfort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m back! You can’t stop a bad bitch like me!!  
> For real tho, this took a bit longer bc I just got the new animal crossing and that’s been taking up most of my time lol.

Despite his lackluster knowledge of civilization, Kieran can still tell that Valentine isn’t anything to be impressed by.  
The whole place reeks of livestock and everything is covered in a heavy sheet of dirt. It’s like... a communal barn, or something.  
(Almost makes him miss the camp. Almost.)

Both Branwen and him are filthy, and the normally white feathering of Arthur’s horse is stained an ugly shade of brown.  
Just the sight alone makes him cringe. Would it kill them to get paved roads?

“Why’re we stopping here, again?” He glances towards Arthur, trying to keep the contempt out of his voice. 

“Have to pick up some more supplies,” Arthur says without even looking in his direction. “I, uh... I’m not used to having to look out for someone else. Only really packed for myself...”  
The past line is muttered, almost as if he’s embarrassed. (Kieran nearly laughs at the thought.)

“Plus, we’ll need to get you an actual gun,” He gestures vaguely at Kieran’s revolver. “That’s not going to do much against some of the things that live up there.”

The strangeness of the statement catches Kieran off-guard. Just a few weeks ago, he was tied to a tree and Arthur was threatening to kill him if he didn’t cough up useful information. Now, he’s taking him on train rides and offering to buy him weapons. What a strange turn of events...

“That’s, um...” He starts, unsure of what he really wants to say. “I- I don’t mean to imply anything, but how do you know—“

“How do I know you won’t shoot me in the back of the head?” Arthur chuckles, looking extremely amused. “I took you down once, figure I could do it again. That, and the fact that you don’t seem particularly suicidal.”

Kieran lets out a long-suffering sigh. Of course it has nothing to do with _trust._ The other man is simply confident in his own abilities.  
He’s just setting himself up for disappointment, really. Not that that’s a new habit of his.  
(Come to think of it, he has a lot of self-destructive tendencies that he should probably look into stopping. Oh well. It’s not like he has the time for introspection right now.)

“R-right,” He answers. Because that’s all he really _should_ say. Simple answers help him stay away from self-sabotage. 

“Just wait here,” Says Arthur as he slides off Boss and hitches her to a post. “I’m on good terms with the shopkeep,” He takes a step away, before pausing and turning back towards Kieran. “I’m serious. _Stay here._ ”

“Not like there’s anywhere I _could_ go.” Kieran mutters under his breath, once he’s sure Arthur is out of earshot. 

Running away is an impossible thought— it’d just be a less direct method of suicide. There’s no way he could survive out here on his own. (And he’s not about to test his luck. He’s never been known to be particularly lucky.)

The muffled sounds of a conversation make their way from inside the store, and Kieran leans forward in a not-so-subtle attempt at eavesdropping.  
(It ends up being nothing interesting. Just the shopkeep telling Arthur about some new clothes that just came in.)

He huffs and leans back in his saddle. This is a terrible idea. Risking his health and sanity in order to help someone who doesn’t even like him.  
This is a new low— even for him.  
(And yes, he’s counting the time he spent with Colm. At least then he had a sense of autonomy. None of this chaperoning bullshit.)

It’s better than being dead. At least, that’s what he tries to tell himself. He’s not the type to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

The door to the shop swings open, and Arthur steps through, his satchel noticeably bigger than before. 

“Wonder if _I’m_ the one bein’ robbed,” He grunts, pulling himself up onto Boss’ saddle. “A dollar for a can of beans? God damn.”  
He reaches into his bag and begins handing a few cans over to Kieran. 

“Now— lets see about getting you a proper gun.”

——

The rifle slung across Kieran’s back is nothing special— just a cheap repeater that was probably stolen off a body then resold. 

To him, though, it feels special. A gift, even if it means nothing to Arthur. A casual olive branch.  
(The thought alone causes a bubbly feeling in the pit of his stomach. He’s not brave enough to try and name the emotion.)

He can’t help but treasure the thing, as shitty as it is. He keeps a grip on the strip of leather holding it, and follows Arthur through the muddy streets. He’s tried to thank the man, only to be brushed off. It seems like he has a hard time taking gratefulness of any kind. 

Arthur’s mumbling about something or another— he can’t really make out the words, and he’s sure the other man doesn’t want him to. 

It’s dark, too— sometime near ten, if Kieran had to guess. (And he does. It’s not like the gang members had the kindness to give him a watch.)

“We’ll stay here for the night,” Say Arthur, glancing back over his shoulder as he takes hold of Boss’ reigns. “‘N leave the horses in the stables. I know how easy it is to steal one in this town.”

Kieran assumes he’s speaking from experience, and isn’t too surprised. He couldn’t count the number of times Arthur had ridden in on an unfamiliar horse that clearly didn’t know him.  
(He always felt bad for the horses— their wild eyes and gnashing teeth encompasses a feeling he knew all too well.)

“You— you’ve spent a lotta time here, I reckon?”

“Not because I wanted to,” He growls. “The girls seem to think this town is with running— can’t tell you why, though. All this town has is sheep. Sheep n mud.” 

“It’s a farming town?” Kieran asks, before immediately feeling stupid. They rode past a large livestock sale yard— _of course_ it’s a goddamn farming town. “Oh. Right.”

“You see, this is _exactly_ why we shouldn’t’ even gone East. Too much civilization for my taste. Even if it’s just dirtholes like this,” Says Arthur, in a tone that implies he’s wanted to say this for a while. 

And, well, maybe he has. It surprises Kieran— doubting Dutch wasn’t like the other man. (At least, he doesn’t _think_ it’s a habit. He hasn’t been here for very long.)  
Maybe he figures that Kieran won’t snitch. Or, if he does, he won’t be taken seriously. Why would anyone listen to the ex-O’Driscoll? 

“You’re coming from out west?” He dares to ask. Colm hadn’t talked much about his history with Dutch van der Linde, (apart from scathing insults and vows of violence.) Kieran honestly had no clue what the gang was like. 

“Mhm,” Arthur hums. “Want to go back, but Dutch seems to have other plans.” 

“I-I’ve never actually been too far out west,” He admits hesitantly, watching the back of the other man’s head. “Well, not the west you’re talking about, I think. Made it to, um, one of the Dakotas. Then... well...”

“That’s pretty far north, where was you headed, anyways?” 

“My Pappy was aiming for California. Never... never actually made it there.”

“Clearly,” Arthur drawls. “And ‘Pappy?’”

“I was real young,” Kieran mumbles, his face flush with embarrassment. “He was from Ireland, you know? T-thought he could find a better life out here.”

He presses his lips together, the memory causing his throat to tighten up. Despite how long ago it was, he still hasn’t gotten over it.  
“Mm. Then he _died._ Of _cholera._ ”

“Ah,” Arthur glances back. “That’s a shame. What about your mother?”

“She died, too,” Kieran sighs. “Again. Of Cholera. I think it might be a curse, at this point. I’ve learned to stay away from streams.”

“Seems like you’ve got a streak of bad luck, kid. Lost your parents, fell in which the O’Driscoll’s, got left behind and captured... I’m not sure you’d last a week on your own.”

“Let’s... not put that to the test.”

“Bet your pappy didn’t see you ending up like this, huh O’Driscoll?” The familiar taunt rolls off of Arthur’s tongue with a strange softness. More of a nickname than any sort of barbed insult. “Fraternizing with the enemy?”

Kieran isn’t sure what the first word means, but he understands the rest.  
“I told you,” He huffs. “You’re not my enemy, anymore. I’m more of a Van der Linde than an O’Driscoll, at this point. Even _if_ I’m just a stable boy.”

The look that Arthur gives him is a strange one that could be interpreted in many ways. (Although, Kieran’s prevailing theory is that it means ‘shut the hell up.’)  
“That’s...” He pauses, staring at him for a moment before turning away. “Hmm.”

——

“And then—“ Arthur nearly shouts into Kieran’s ear, beer bottle gripped tightly in his fist. “I have to wrestle this _huge_ guy in the goddamn mud in the middle of town! All because Bill bumped into someone!”

The younger man snickers, crossing his arms on the bar table and resting his head against them. He’s _pretty_ sure Arthur has already told this story tonight, but isn’t about to call him out in it. His brain feels too fuzzy for him to even consider forming an intelligent sentence.  
“Mhmmmm.” 

Oh boy. He’s _really_ drunk, now. Agreeing to visit the bar with Arthur was a mistake that’s going to bite him in the ass tomorrow. He just knows it.  
(He can’t handle alcohol very well, which suited him just fine during his time with the O’Driscolls. Gave him a reason to stay away from the piss they called moonshine.)

“Did you win?” He eventually manages to say. 

For a moment, Arthur almost looks offended. The alcohol would make him easy to read if Kieran wasn’t also having a hard time staying up.  
“Of course I won!” He scoffs, but there’s a hint of a laugh in his voice. “Never met a man I couldn’t lay out.” 

“Won’t— won’t argue with you... on that...” Kieran hums, closing his eyes briefly. He’s tired, but Arthur slapping a hand onto his shoulder wakes him back up. “Huh?”

“You fallin’ asleep already?” He says, his voice softer than before. 

“Shit—“ Kieran lifts his head off of the bar table, and rubs his eyes with his hand. “Yeah, I think so. I... I don’t take well to drinks.” He admits. 

Arthur laughs brightly, leaning back and slapping a hand on Kieran’s back. In the back of his hazy mind, he registers how warm it is. And how comforting the weight it. Uh oh.  
“Yeah... should probably cut it off before we have another... _Lenny_ situation.” He chuckles to himself. 

“Ohh,” Kieran straightens up, squinting at the other man. “I think I heard about that. You got arrested, right?”

“I—“ He starts, tugging on the back of Kieran’s shirt as he stumbles towards the exit. “Meant. For that to happen. It was—“

“Part of your plan?”

A pause.  
“Shut up.”

——

Arthur has the great idea of setting up camp not even 50 feet outside of Valentine. They both have to work together to set up the tent— and even then, it ends up being lopsided and pathetic. 

Neither of them really care, though. They’re both well past that point. 

Kieran sits near the fire, and Arthur is passed out in the tent. (He hadn’t offered to share it, so he assumes he’ll be sleeping near Branwen, again. Fine by him.)

He’s honestly surprised he’s made it this far. Two days out in the wilderness with Arthur Morgan— infamous outlaw.  
(And not once has he been threatened with violence! What a strange world.)

Sighing, he lays back on the ground. It’s cold and hard and something he’s gotten entirely too used to. The only bed roll he has is old and worn down.

“I am... out of my mind.” He mutters to himself, staring up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok I have a question for y’all— when I finished the campaign, I didn’t actually get the credit sequence. It faded to black and then I had to drive a wagon as John while sobbing. Did that happen to anyone else?
> 
> Anywho luv y’all <3 let me know about any issues bc im terminally stupid lol


	5. Out of My League

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kierthur modern au idea: Kieran runs one of those horse girl accounts and Arthur has a Facebook page that’s full of those shitty fishing memes. He has a shirt that says “of course I cum fast, I got fish to catch!!”  
> No I will not accept criticism on this. This is a fact.

Squinting against the harsh sunlight, Arthur tries (and fails) to ignore the headache pounding behind his eyes.   
He _knew_ he should’ve cut himself in for at the first drink. But no, he just _had_ to keep going. Drinking came naturally to him, and it helped to settle the strange churning in his stomach— the feeling that he knows and hates all too well.

Some part of him had known that it would be wise to quit while he was ahead, but he was (and still is) a self-destructive fool. His incessant need to prove himself, paired with a competitive streak a mile wide always landed him in horrible situations. He really never learns. 

He groans and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, relishing in the sharp clarity the pain brings.   
It helps clear his mind.

Sitting up slowly, Arthur sniffs then coughs. He thinks he might be coming down with something— not that he can afford to. He chooses to ignore it. 

There’s a quiet muttering coming from outside his tent, and it takes Arthur a minute to remember that he’s not alone. The (ex) O’Driscoll stable boy had slept outside without so much as a complaint. The lack of snide comments is refreshing. 

Arthur pushes open the flap of his tent (which, for some reason, is horribly lopsided and barely standing on its own,) and blinks at the sight that greets him.  
Kieran has Boss’ hoof pinned between his knees, and is examining the soft underside. 

The Belgian draft lifts up her head as Arthur steps out, making a soft whinnying sound. 

“‘S alright, girl,” Kieran says quietly, likely not even noticing the other man.   
(For some reason, that makes the scene all the more sweet to Arthur. Kieran’s not trying to put on a show— just trying to comfort an animal that’s twice as big as him.)

“Uhp— there it is...” He holds up a small rock, which was (presumably) lodged in Boss’ hoof.   
A surge of unwarranted spite rushes through Arthur— how had he not noticed? It’s _his_ horse, after all. He was the horse whisperer of the Van der Linde gang long before Kieran had even heard of the O’Driscolls. 

But as quickly as the anger appears, it dissipates. He’s not Bill— he has no reason to hold a grudge against Kieran over a perceived competition. He’s being ridiculous. 

“She usually doesn’t like people touching her,” Arthur eventually speaks up, watching Kieran jerk in surprise. “You’re lucky you weren’t kicked.”

“R-really?” Kieran manages to spit out, taking a step away from Boss. “She seemed real sweet to me...” 

“Seems like horses just seem to like you, stable boy,” He scoffs. “Don’t see much of your appeal, myself, but...” A noncommittal shrug. “I guess there’s just something about you they like. Certainly isn’t your smell.”

“Oh, haha, very funny,” Kieran sighs, smoothing a hand down the side of his face. “It’s—it’s not like I’ve had a lot of free time. Plus, I have to have a... a _chaperone_ every time I want to step foot out of camp, so that I— I don’t _run off to the O’Driscolls._ ” 

The last part is said in a tone that’s obviously meant to mimic Bill— and Arthur can’t help but chuckle at it.   
“Mm. Yeah, I can see how that could be an issue,” Arthur scratches are his beard, making a mental note to shave soon. “Who knows, maybe I’ll put in a good word when we get back. Perhaps then you won’t always look like a greasy rat.”

“Um... that’s a... kind sentiment,” Kieran wrinkles his nose, as if he’s unsure of if he should be offended or grateful. “But I doubt anything would change. They— they just don’t trust me! I don’t think there’s anything I can do to prove myself...”

“Just... give it some time. They’ll come around eventually,” He pauses. “Maybe.”

A heavy sigh.   
“No use standing here and feeling sorry for myself. You probably want to head out soon?” 

——

The two of them leave Valentine without so much as a glance back. Kieran makes his grievances with the town well-known once they’re far enough away, and Arthur can’t help but agree.   
It seems civilization isn’t either of their strong suits. 

The air has gotten colder— but still nothing close to what they’ll have to face in the upper Grizzlies.   
Arthur’s become accustomed to it, but it seems Kieran is having trouble keeping himself warm.

(It’s not surprising. The man’s a walking pile of skin and bones.)  
He has one hand gripping his horse’s reigns, and the other arm wrapped across his body. 

Every now and again, he makes a noise like he wants to say something, but always cuts himself off. 

It’s starting to get on Arthur’s nerves. 

“Do you want to stop, or somethin’?” He eventually snaps, when Kieran makes like he’s about to talk for the twentieth time. “God damn, boy, spit it out!”

Kieran jerks in his saddle, causing his horse to stop momentarily. “I— Uh, s-sorry, Mister Arthur,” he stutters. “It’s just— if it isn’t too much trouble, can we stop? J-just for a minute! It’s getting cold, and—“

“Just shut up and put your coat on,” Arthur grumbles, shifting in his saddle and looking away. This isn’t kindness— nothing close. He’s only doing it so that Kieran will shut up.   
He has no alternative motives. (At least, that’s what he tells himself. Being defensive is a lot easier than admitting _anything._ )

He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and puts one between his lips. Out of habit, he shoves the card into his satchel without even looking at it. He’ll have to check it later— he’s almost finished with the Gems of Beauty set. 

Arthur scrunches his nose and glances back at Kieran, who is pulling on the same black coat from Colter.   
(He hates the fact that it looks good on him. Helps the O’Driscoll look less scrawny and underfed.)

It’d probably be best for Arthur to put on his coat as well, seeing as they’ve already stopped. 

He swings a leg over his saddle and drops onto the ground, patting Boss’ flank as he digs his coat out of the saddlebag.   
She’s a good horse— loyal but dumb as rocks. (It seems they have a lot in common. Maybe that’s why they get along.) He hopes this Arabian is worth all the trouble. 

“I—I’m ready to go when you are,” Kieran’s voice breaks the silence, and Arthur can hear him climb back into his saddle. 

He pulls in a long drag of the cigarette before dropping it and stomping the end out.   
“Mhm,” He grunts as he climbs up. “Let’s move.”

—

It only takes another hour for the first signs of snow to appear. Arthur’s breath is visible against the cold air, and the wind bites at his nose and ears.   
And it’s not the _only_ thing biting at his ears...

“I was only up here for a couple a months, really,” Kieran’s mostly just talking to himself, as Arthur hasn’t actually said anything in response apart from vague affirmations. It’s probably the most he’s heard the O’Driscoll talk. Not that he appreciates it.  
“I was coming from the West, lookin’ for work.”

“Mhm.”

“Got ambushed somewhere up in the mountains. They, eh, didn’t really give me a choice when it came to joining or not. Was kinda forced into it.”

“That so?”

“Yeah... They had me work with the horses. Really not much different than what I do with you fellers. ‘Cept y’all actually know my name.”

“Huh.”

“Most of ‘em just called me ‘stable boy...’ and Colm’d call me any name starting with a K. So the competition for ‘kindest gang Kieran Duffy’s been a part of’ ain’t too fierce.”

“Oh, well lucky us.”

“Do you think Dutch trusts me?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Do you think he’ll ever?”

“...”

“Is that a no?”

“I mean... it’s unlikely. But I guess if he trusts _Micah_ there ain’t no reason for him to be wary of you forever.”

“Ugh. Don’t remind me of him. I think he likes torturing me even more than Bill does.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me.”

“There just isn’t pleasing some people. I think they both have some sort of grudge against me. Don’t know where it comes from, though.”

“Bill’s an idiot. And Micah’s a sour bastard. Don’t take it to heart.”

“I don’t think there’s anyone in the gang that Micah likes. Not even you.”

“And that surprises you?”

“Not... especially. I—I don’t mean it like _that,_ Mister Arthur. You’re plenty likable.” 

“If you say so.”

“Well, you’re certainly better than some of the others. T-though I guess that’s not much of an accomplishment.”

“You’re outta camp for, what, three days? And you’re already running your mouth. This’d better not become a habit of yours.”

“... o-of course, Mister Arthur.”

—

The silence that follows is nice, if not entirely too awkward for Arthur’s liking. He doesn’t feel satisfaction watching Kieran squirm and avoid making eye contact. It’s just... awkward, and honestly kind of pathetic. 

He glances back at the other man briefly, debating whether he should say something or just let the whole thing go. 

‘Way to go, Morgan. You made it weird.’

He sighs, his eyes scanning over the blindingly white landscape.   
Boss trudges through the now-heavy snow, snorting and shaking her head. Arthur pats her neck and mutters words of encouragement.

He wishes that cruelty didn’t come so naturally. Being nasty rarely gets him the results he wants. (But it’s a trait that’s become deeply embedded. He’s not sure it’d be possible for him to change.)

Movement in the distance draws his attention— a deer in the distance raises its head to watch them.   
It stares for a moment, before slowly resuming its search for food.

A thought pops into his mind.

“Kieran,” Arthur mutters, pulling on Boss’ reigns. “Over there. See it?”

“Huh?” The O’Driscoll glances up, squinting. “What is that? A rock?”

“No it’s not a rock, you—“ He cuts himself off. Don’t make the situation worse than it is already. Sugar and flies, sugar and flies. “It’s a deer. A big buck, from the looks of it.”

“Oh, really?” Kieran leans forward, trying to get a better view. “Huh.”

Keeping his gaze on the animal, Arthur pulls the Rolling Black rifle from his saddle.   
“Canned beans get real boring real quick.” He says, noticing Kieran’s questioning gaze out of the corner of his eye. 

He raises the scope to his eye, his hands steady and breathing even. The crosshairs rest neatly over the buck’s head. 

Inhale.   
Exhale.   
Ignore Kieran.  
Fire. 

The buck drops instantly, the snow behind it stained red. Boss hardly moves, by now used to the crack of the rifle. Kieran’s horse— Branwen, he’s pretty sure— in the other hand, shys away from him and threatens to rear. It’s likely that the stallion hasn’t gotten the chance to become accustomed to gunfire.

“G-good shot, Mister Arthur!” Kieran stutters, stroking his horse’s neck in an attempt to calm it down. 

“Just Arthur.” He sighs.

—

“You’re sure there aren’t any wolves in these parts..?” Kieran asks timidly, poking the small fire with a stick. 

“Most’ve the packs I’ve seen are further north,” Arthur answers with a shrug. “This is bear country.”

“Oh, well, that certainly makes me feel a whole lot better.” 

“Don’t worry too much about it. The fire’ll scare them off,” Arthur sniffs, rubbing his gloved hands together in a vain attempt at staying warm. “And I’ve killed bears before. A good shot and they’ll drop like anything else.” 

“It’s easy for you to say that. You’ve got a tent and all. Don’t feel quite as confident sleeping out in the open.”

“Then quit your whining and get in the tent,” He scoffs. “I don’t bite.”

Kieran stares at him for a moment, his eyes wide and cheeks flushed. (Although, it may just be because of the bitter cold. Or a trick of the lighting.)  
“I... don’t want to be an annoyance.”

“We are far past _that_ point, O’Driscoll,” Arthur shakes his head. “Just don’t argue with me on this. This whole thing’d be a waste of my time if you ended up getting eaten in your sleep.”

The strangely hopeful expression on the other man’s face drops, replaced with something more akin to disappointment .   
“Y-Yeah, of course,” He sighs. “Wouldn’t want that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: I think I’ll sprinkle in a little bit of foreshadowing, and— *hits you on the head with a sledgehammer*  
> So yeah... Arthur’s TB is still a thing in this fic. But don’t worry!!! I didn’t just conveniently forget to tag this with “major character death.” Arthur isn’t going to drop dead :)
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are appreciated!!


	6. Crossing Unknown Territory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh quarantine is ruf 😞   
> Lmk if there are any like... glaring issues with this. I write things with my little bastard hands and then post them the moment I’m done.   
> (Which is why, in an earlier chapter, I left in a note for myself “check the area stupid”)

As usual, Kieran is sure that he is a complete and utter idiot. He’s now stuck in a tiny tent with the man who lasso’d him and threatened to break every bone in his body. And he _likes it._

Arthur provides a steady weight against his back, and the warmth is horribly comforting. The whole thing makes Kieran feel sick.   
He sighs shakily and wraps his arms around himself. Sure, Arthur seems to be a walking furnace, but without a bedroll, Kieran is still freezing. 

One problem after another— the story of Kieran Duffy’s life. He just can’t seem to catch a break. 

This is wrong. In what way, he’s not exactly sure, but he knows that this isn’t right. He’s... taking advantage of Arthur? No, even to his paranoid brain, that sounds stupid. The man’s too smart— to strong. 

Then he’s not taking advantage of _Arthur,_ exactly. Just his kindness.   
(Or, perhaps, Arthur’s patience. Kieran’s not sure he can call the man “kind.”)

As if agreeing, Arthur coughs in his sleep.   
“Sorry,” Kieran whispers out of instinct. 

He curls in on himself, both to preserve heat and to comfort himself. He feels sick. There’s something wrong with him. (Always has been, always will be. He’ll never change.) 

Can’t read, can’t hunt, can’t fight. But he sure as hell can find a way to ruin good things the moment they happen.   
Someone’s finally showing him a hint of kindness and he goes and develops... _feelings._

The thought alone causes him to shiver. It’s bad enough that he’s the black sheep of the Van der Linde gang, but even worse now that he has eyes for the beloved backbone of the whole operation— Arthur Goddamn Morgan.   
Could he be any more pathetic?

No. The answer is no. He came to terms with that a long time ago. 

It was what got him kicked out of the army— “unnatural acts.” Aka, getting caught in a compromising position with another soldier.   
At the time, he hadn’t cared much about being discharged. Life in the army did him no good, and had only served to be a means to an end.

The aimless wandering after had been the worst part. Just Branwen and him traveling in a random direction until something (or, more often than not, someone,) stopped them. 

Eventually, he had been taken in by a small group of outlaws. That didn’t end well, either.   
They had all been killed. All except for him.   
(He doesn’t know if he’s incredibly lucky or unlucky. He supposes it doesn’t really matter at this point.)

And then he had wandered some more, until he was held at gunpoint and forced to join a gang of idiots and murderers. 

But he’s getting off topic. Right now, he has bigger problems than the O’Driscolls.   
Namely, the man he’s currently pressed up against. 

There’s only one thing he really _can_ do— keep his head down and make sure to not say anything incriminating.   
(And pray to god that Arthur never finds out.)

——

“Not to get our hopes up, but these look like horse tracks.”   
Arthur kneels next to the disturbed snow, his hand hovering over the tracks. 

Kieran, still seated inside Branwen, follows the tracks with his eyes.   
“Looks like they go up and around the lake. Might as well check it out— ‘s not like we’ve got any other leads.”

Grunting an affirmation, Arthur climbs back into Boss’ saddle and kicks her into a slow trot. “Map said it’d be around here somewhere,” He glances back. “Though, I haven’t the faintest clue how old it is.”

“Hopefully not too old,” Kieran mutters. Coming all this way just to end up empty-handed? It’s be a nightmare. 

He can see that Arthur has said map spread out on his lap, glancing between it and the terrain ahead. His lips are moving like he’s talking, but whatever it is, it’s too quiet for Kieran to hear.

It’s something he’s seen Arthur do multiple times. Maybe it’s an unconscious thing— something he’s done his whole life.   
(Kieran doesn’t think they’re close enough for him to ask. Arthur only barely stands his presence, as long as he’s quiet and agreeable. He makes a mental note to ask later. Maybe.)

The two of them continue to follow the tracks, which are zig-zaggy and erratic, until Arthur stops and suggests that they should continue on foot. Something about moose in the area and the risk of scaring off the horse. 

“Should be around here...” He says, staring down at the crumpled bit of paper. “Somewhere.”  
A pause, and then he glances back at the other man. “So, what exactly _is_ your plan, for when we actually find this thing?”

“Oh— uh, well,” Kieran starts, not expecting the question. “Arabians spook real easy, so you can’t just go charging in there. And they’re strong, so I wouldn’t recommend trying to rope it down.”

“And that leaves... what exactly?”

“Well... you’ll want to approach it slow, and calm, make sure it doesn’t get spooked,” He says, before realizing that’s easier said than done. “Uh, we’ll really have to wait and see the horse’s temperament. Generalizations are kinda unhelpful.”

Arthur grunts an affirmation, continuing to trudge through the deep snow.   
Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howls.

The snow is so blindingly white that Kieran has trouble making out anything.   
In front of him, Arthur suddenly stops, dropping down into a low crouch.   
“What—“

Arthur shushes him, reaching a hand back to block Kieran. He nods his head at something in front of them, and points with his free hand.   
“There,” He whispers. “See it?”

Squinting against the glare of the sun, he tries to spot anything against the plains of snow. His eyes widen when movement draws his attention.   
“Holy shit.”

“And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.” Arthur says with a grin that shouldn’t be as charming as it is. 

“That’s mighty poetic of you, Arthur. Didn’t take you for a writer.”

“It’s—“ A pause, and Arthur looks at him like he’s stupid. “It’s from the Bible.”

“Oh,” He can feel his face heat up, and can only pray that Morgan isn’t feeling cruel enough to point it out. “Well, I can’t exactly _read,_ so you’ll have to forgive me. Let’s— let’s just focus on the horse for now.”

Arthur gives him a strange look, but doesn’t pursue the topic. He moves forward slowly, staying crouched and keeping his eyes on the Arabian. 

“Slow and steady,” Kieran mutters a reminder. “When you get close enough, call to get ‘er attention. Less likely for her to spook.”

The other man nods, and continues to move closer. His hand hovers over the lasso at his side, like he’s making an effort to not pull it out right away.   
(Maybe that means something. Kieran isn’t sure. At least he knows Arthur was listening.)

Eventually, Arthur stands up slowly, and whistles in order to get the Arabian’s attention.   
“Hey, uh, girl..?”

“Just stay calm,” Kieran says, watching as the horse shies away. “If you’re nervous, you’ll scare it off. They pick up that sort of stuff.”  
Morgan doesn’t look back, but he does nod.

“I just gotta keep my head straight, huh girl?” He says in a tone of voice typically reserved for Boss. “And then... we can friends.”

Kieran trails after him, careful to keep his distance.   
The Arabian itself is quite a sight to behold— a pure white that is hard to separate from the snow. It threatens to rear as Arthur gets closer, but doesn’t flee.   
(He can see, now, why it’s something of a legend. It could fetch a pretty price from the right buyer. An (as of yet) untamed beauty.)

Arthur’s right in front of it, now— his hands held up in an attempt at calming the horse down. It throws its head back and whinnies, but still doesn’t flee.   
(It’s braver than Kieran is— he’ll give it that.)  
He puts his hand forward hesitantly, and pats the side of the Arabian’s neck. 

And then, suddenly, Arthur’s on top of the horse and has a makeshift bridle on its face.   
It takes all of Kieran’s self-restraint to not start shouting instructions as the Arabian rears up and begins to buck. 

For a brief moment, it almost seems like Arthur’s got it handled. The Arabian appears to calm down, and the man is still seated on its back.   
At least, he _was._ Because it seems to suddenly find him disagreeable, and manages to throw him with a particularly wild rear. 

Arthur lands flat on his back, his hands sticking up comically from the deep snow.   
The Arabian snorts and trots away, like the whole thing is just an annoyance. 

“O-oh my god, Arthur, are you okay?” Kieran struggles to run through the snow. “You— ugh, it _really_ did not like you, huh?”

“I suppose not,” Arthur grunts, accepting the hand that Kieran offers. “Most animals are not great fans of man.”

“Don’t let it discourage you. I don’t think it went too far...”

——

The Arabian, as it turns out, is only a five minute trek away. It spots them coming this time, and shakes it’s head in an attempt at removing the rope bridle. 

“My advice from earlier still stands,” Kieran mutters, rubbing his hands together for warmth. “Just— just be careful, okay? We’re a long way from a doctor of any sort.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Arthur drawls. 

Kieran hangs back as the other man trudges toward the horse, approaching at a much slower pace than before.   
(Once bitten twice shy? Although, ascribing the word _shy_ to a man like Arthur Morgan feels stupid.)

He can hear Morgan muttering encouragment to the horse, patting it once he gets close enough.   
Once again, he heaves himself onto the Arabian and takes hold of the reigns. 

And oh boy— Kieran doesn’t think he’s ever seen an angrier horse. It rears almost immediately, and fights against Arthur with a renewed vigor. 

“Come on...” He can’t help but whisper. “Come on, Arthur...”

In the end, it seems that Arthur’s stubbornness wins out, and the Arabian accepts its fate. It shakes its head and huffs with a resounding finality.   
(Arthur’s won this round. But the look in its eye says this won’t be the last.)

Arthur holds out a hand, shushing the horse and kicking it into a slow trot.   
“Shit!” He grins at Kieran. “Didn’t think I’d make it!”

“I was worried, too,” Kieran chuckles, reaching out in order to pet the horse. “Um— n-not that I was doubting you.”

Arthur laughs at that— even though Kieran was dead serious— and shakes his head. “No harm intended, eh O’Driscoll?”

“I’m not—“ He starts, but cuts himself off with a sigh. “You’re very funny, Arthur Morgan. Now—“ He glances down at the horse. “What’re you planning on doing with ‘er?”

“I, uh... don’t think we should go straight back,” Arthur answers. “I’m still worried she’ll throw me.”  
A pause as he stares down.  
“She... doesn’t really look like the Count, does she?”

Kieran’s surprised by the hesitancy in the other man’s voice. He doesn’t sound particularly disappointed, just... surprised, maybe?  
“Well, of course not,” He assures Morgan. “She’s not an albino. An’ she’s got her winter coat, so she’s a little fuzzier. Could get her groomed when we get back.”

“Hmm. Yeah,” A pause as Arthur narrows his eyes at something in the distance.   
“Looks like a storm’s rolling in.”

Kieran glances back, just in time to see the dark clouds on the horizon.   
“Aw, crap... I’m not sure a tent’ll be much good against that.”

“Then we won’t use a tent. I say we just head to Colter— you remember it, don’t you? That mining town we were at?”

“I don’t think I could forget it if I wanted to,” He sighs. “Being tied to a wooden pole in a barn is a rather memorable experience.”

“Always gotta look at the negative side of things, don’t ya? Now come on— I don’t want to be caught outside when this thing arrives.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember how before RDR2 was released all those articles came out saying how you could have gay cowboy sex? What ever happened to that? I think they should do that in undead nightmare two and have a mini game whe I can’t finish that sentence. 
> 
> Love and appreciate every single one of you guys!! <3 <3  
> Kudos and comments are appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> Uh  
> So this is my first RDR2 fanfic, and I’m still trying to get the hang of it lol. These two are so sweet so I decided to write them.
> 
> Comments and critique are welcomed and appreciated :)


End file.
